


Claiming, Claimed

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angels (Supernatural) are Weird, Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Dead Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dubious Consent, M/M, Magical Artifacts, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you,” the human says, his fear evident only through scent and the wide green of his eyes.The binding collar in his hand reveals the lie instantly.





	Claiming, Claimed

**Author's Note:**

> writergamermom said:  
> For the trope could I get kidnapping and immortal?

The summoning grips Castiel between each pair of wings and _yanks_ the angel down.

Down into the world.

Down into physicality. 

Down into, as far as he can tell through his abruptly limited senses, a basement. 

The dominant lighting of the room circles his feet, a tight line of holy fire that has him straightening his... his spine, this is a spine. He keeps his (two) hands close to his sides and turns only his (one) head. With a mere pair of eyes, his depth perception is limited, but the human man who set the blaze and performed the summoning is standing needlessly close. 

Castiel cocks his head. 

The man sweats, the drops dotting his forehead and slipping down his cheeks. The scent of burning holy oil overpowers much of the man’s, but the stench of fear and desperation remains nonetheless. The man’s clothing points to American, though much of Castiel’s assumption behind this is the lingering sense of being pulled toward Kansas before he was compressed beyond his usual allotment of senses. 

Slowly, a wider awareness returns, limited though it is. Yes, this is Kansas, but not a basement. An underground bunker. Wards and enchantments span throughout the structure, but Castiel cannot reach them, can only barely perceive. 

Before him, the man swallows. “What’s your name?” the human asks in English. 

Castiel simply waits. 

“I’m Dean,” the human says, his fear evident only through scent and the wide green of his eyes. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The binding collar in his hand reveals the lie instantly.

Castiel knows their make, their history. He knows that the greater the power of the collared being, the greater the restraint of the collar. He remembers well the demands made of the last angels whose necks such collars encircled, and he knows well what came after. 

Demands for destruction. For power. 

And always, always, the consequences.

Dean looks down at the collar. Looks back at Castiel across the flames.

Swallows again. 

“I mean it,” Dean says. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just gonna... have you stick around for a bit. You’re immortal, right? Won’t even register for you. Just a little while. Okay?”

Castiel waits. 

“That is,” Dean says, looking at Castiel at an angle, “if you let me put this on.”

Castiel waits. 

Slowly, Dean edges closer to the flames. “I know you can’t reach over.”

Castiel waits, and he watches. 

“I’m gonna put this on you,” Dean says, holding it out, nearly over the flames. “Just lift your chin up.”

“If I refuse?” Castiel asks. 

“I can keep trying until I find an angel who will,” Dean answers, and through there’s terror behind his eyes, there is also truth. 

“Would you burn me alive?” Castiel asks. 

Dean’s jaw twitches. “Put the collar on, and I won’t hurt you. At all. Ever.”

Castiel lowers his head, tucking his chin to his chest. It’s a strange angle from which to look at a human in challenge, but this is what Castiel does. 

Dean exhales through clenched teeth. 

“Okay,” the human says. “We’re gonna work on that.”

  


  


  


Days pass. 

Castiel stands. 

Dean brings a chair for himself. He adds more oil to the ring. He checks it diligently. Religiously, another angel might joke. 

  


  


  


Once, Dean is gone for three days. The oil burns slowly, but it does burn, and it burns low. 

Castiel watches with both interest and a vague sense of thwarted curiosity. 

Dean returns and tops up the oil. After, he sags with relief, dropping into the chair. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Man, that was close.” He looks up at Castiel with a relieved grin before sobering. “...Right, sorry. Guess you’re not exactly relieved.”

“Where did you go?” Castiel asks. 

“Hunting,” Dean says. “Quick salt and burn, thought it would be quicker.”

“You dispel ghosts?”

Dean nods, smiles widely, desperately, and tells Castiel all about it. 

  


  


  


Dean Winchester hunts ghosts, and monsters, and demons. Once, before they died, his grandparents had been hunters. Once, before she married and later died, his mother had been a hunter. After his mother died, his father became a hunter, and later died. After his father became a hunter, Dean and his brother became hunters. 

The brother later died. 

The bunker is from his father’s side of his family, also a line of hunters. Also dead. 

“Now it’s just me,” Dean says, concluding a long and winding tale. By now, he sits on the floor, an empty plate of crumbs before him. He’d eaten and drank in between speaking, beyond eager for a listener, or perhaps an audience. 

“I will not resurrect them,” Castiel informs the human. “Even bound by your collar, even should your relatives reside within Heaven, I would be incapable of it on my own.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean says with the sigh of someone who had hoped despite knowing better. He pushes breadcrumbs around his plate with one finger. “That’s okay, though.”

Castiel waits. 

After a contemplative silence lasting nearly ten minutes, Dean starts to speak anew. About his brother, mostly. 

And still Castiel waits. 

  


  


  


Over the following week, Dean effectively moves into the small, concrete room that has become Castiel’s temporary home. Dean brings a blanket at first, then a sleeping bag and pillow. He leaves to fetch food and drink, to defecate and urinate, to bathe and change clothing. 

He stays to sleep. To eat and drink. 

To talk, endlessly. 

He asks Castiel questions aplenty. He asks Castiel’s opinions on the creatures he’s faced as a hunter, the forces he’s killed. He prompts Castiel for stories of his own. 

If Castiel’s unrelenting silence fatigues Dean, the human gives no sign. 

Each time Dean sleeps, he lies on his side facing the crackling flames. Very often, Dean thrashes in his sleep. Sometimes, he shouts, though never very articulately. 

Whenever Dean jerks awake, he always looks immediately to Castiel, rolling over if necessary. Dean stares long and hard, chest heaving, sweat along his skin and fear in the air. Often, Dean will crawl forward in his sleeping clothes across the concrete floor to inspect the oil level. Sometimes, Dean will slump back to his makeshift bed. 

Other times, Dean remains, seated on the hard floor with his legs crossed and his head drooping. He props up his chin with one palm, his elbow stuck against his knee. His eyes drift shut. Strangely, the times he falls asleep like that, he doesn’t thrash at all, possibly sleeping too poorly to dream. 

Once, Dean nods off very close to the flames. The yellow-orange glow casts color into his increasingly sallow skin. Dean’s head droops. And droops. 

All of Dean droops, slowly rocking forward toward the line of fire. 

Falling forward... jerking back. 

Falling forward...

Jerking back. 

Falling forward...

“ _Dean.”_

Dean’s head snaps up, his eyes blinking open. “Huh?”

Castiel says nothing. 

Groaning softly to himself, Dean rubs his eyes with both hands. “You say something there, buddy?”

Castiel says nothing, watching impassively. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean grunts, climbing to his feet in an obvious state of pain. He shuffles back to his sleeping bag, lies down, and quickly drops back off into sleep. 

  


  


  


Castiel is unsure how long a human can remain continually indoors and without sunlight. It’s not what humans were made to do, and thus the question persists. 

The answer is probably less time than Dean spends trapped below ground with him. 

When Dean’s stories dry up, Dean himself seems to do the same. He spends a great deal of time collapsed on his side, be it from exhaustion or alcohol. He tends to the ring of holy fire daily, but barely tends to himself. 

It occurs to Castiel that Dean is dying. 

“Did you summon me to heal you?” Castiel guesses. 

Lying on his side, Dean stares up at him blankly. 

“Dean,” Castiel says more firmly.

Dean blinks. “Are you talking?”

“Did you summon me to heal you?” Castiel repeats. 

Dean keeps on staring. Slowly, he shakes his head. “What I got can’t be healed, buddy.”

“Then what am I here for?”

“Well, you’re immortal, right?” Dean asks. 

Castiel nods. 

Dean looks at him as if this is somehow the answer. 

Frowning, Castiel asks, “Do you mean to seize my life as your own?” Even as he asks it, he knows the question to be absurd. Dean is not dying from a lack of life within the cells of his body. 

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches. “You can’t die,” Dean says. “That’s all I need from you. Just... Just stay here. With me. And don’t die. That’s all.”

Frowning even more deeply, Castiel repeats, “That’s all?”

Miserable and exhausted, Dean nods.

Slowly, curiously, Castiel lifts his chin from his chest. 

It takes Dean a long blank minute to realize the significance. 

For the first time in a month, Dean moves with true speed, grabbing the collar up off his chair and darting to stand before Castiel. Dean’s teeth shine in the firelight as he holds the collar up and fastens it around Castiel’s neck. 

It fits. 

Such collars always do. 

The binding collar finds Castiel’s strength and pulls back against it accordingly until all is snug. There comes a flash of light from around his neck when the adjustment is complete, and Dean collapses to his knees, covering his face but clearly crying. 

Castiel watches, uncertain whether it is the light or emotion that has blinded Dean. 

“I command you to stay in the bunker,” Dean orders between heavy breaths, the words fast but clear. “You have to stay now.”

When Dean finally composes himself, wiping his face with both sleeves, he douses the ring of fire. 

For the first time since he was compressed into this form, Castiel takes a step. His (two) feet feel strange anew. His limited body rubs against his assumed clothing strangely. 

“Do, uh, do you want to shower?” Dean asks, clearing his throat. “Change clothes? Eat? Hell, sit down?” 

“Why?” Castiel asks, having done none of these things. 

Dean stares with a new kind of blankness. Strange, as Castiel had thought he had already learned all of Dean’s hollow expressions. This one is empty, and yet with life behind it. 

It’s very curious. 

“Is it important I do those things?” Castiel asks. 

“I mean, people generally like to,” Dean says. 

Castiel nods. “I will try them.”

  


  


  


Showering is pleasant. The water outlines his body nicely, even if the outline is wrong. 

Changing clothing is pointless in terms of hygiene, but the new scents are interesting. 

Eating feels strange to the teeth, good to the tongue, and rough on his throat. Dean instructs him to chew longer, and eating is less rough on his throat. 

Castiel sits while eating, and sitting is fine. He also sits on an armchair. Dean sits on the other armchair in the room, and they watch television. 

Despite the stimulus in front of them, or perhaps because of it, Dean talks more than he has for weeks. He falls asleep in the armchair as well, and Castiel continues watching television. 

When Dean inevitably jerks awake, he does so in a state of terror, and he only comes back to himself once he’s standing over Castiel, one hand on Castiel’s shoulder, the other on his arm, both hands fisted in Castiel’s sleeves. 

Castiel looks up at Dean placidly. 

“Sorry,” Dean pants, letting go of him. Falling back to sit against the armrest of his chair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” Dean coughs. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Unafraid, Castiel says nothing. 

  


  


  


During the day hours, Dean shows him every part of the bunker. The kitchen and dungeon Castiel has already seen, in addition to Dean’s TV room. There are more rooms, all for very human uses, but the one that seems to take _Dean_ by surprise is the one for storing vehicles. 

With a small gasp, Dean interrupts his own tour and takes Castiel by the wrist, pulling him forward until they reach a black automobile, younger than the other vehicles present but still older than Dean himself. 

“This is Baby,” Dean says, addressing the car. He runs a hand over the shining black metal, all while keeping a firm grip on Castiel’s wrist. “My car. My dad’s. I haven’t...”

What Dean hasn’t done, he doesn’t say. Eventually, Dean releases Castiel’s arm, and he watches Castiel wander about the garage, looking at the strangeness of human invention. 

  


  


  


Dean gives him everything a human would need, much of it very strange. Curious, Castiel follows along. When Dean eats breakfast, Castiel eats. When Dean asks him to play board games, Castiel learns to play board games. When Dean eats lunch, Castiel eats lunch. When Dean wants to show Castiel more of the cars, more in-depth, Castiel looks at cars. When Dean eats dinner, Castiel eats dinner. When Dean tells him it’s movie night, Castiel watches a movie. 

Castiel says, once, that he enjoys movie night. 

Every night becomes movie night. 

“Hey, buddy?” Dean asks during one involving guns and horses instead of guns and cars, or guns and helicopters. 

Castiel looks at Dean. 

“So... I get why you might not want to say,” Dean begins. “I mean, last time I asked, I was keeping you in a ring of fire and now I’m basically, uh, still keeping you, but, um.” 

Castiel keeps looking at Dean. 

“What’s your name?” Dean asks. 

“Castiel.”

“Oh,” Dean says, his entire body taking the shape of surprise. “Okay. Cool. Cool. Castiel. Hi.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel answers. 

For some reason, Dean smiles very, very widely at this. “Cool,” he whispers. 

They watch the rest of the movie. 

  


  


  


Dean plans days, sometimes. Not for the both of them, just for Castiel. He plans these schedules on the days Dean decides that he himself must travel. Dean tells Castiel that there are hunts he must do, that he will be back, that Castiel will not be bored without him. 

Castiel isn’t. 

  


  


  


Dean returns with scrapes and bruises at best, deep cuts and broken bones at worst. 

Castiel greets Dean in the garage each time, and Dean attempts to walk to the infirmary, even when his body is no longer suited for walking. 

Dean never asks Castiel for healing. In fact, beyond Dean’s instructions that Castiel is not to leave the bunker, Dean has asked nothing of him.

At the first broken bone, however, Castiel takes the liberty. He reaches out, a motion that stops Dean in his already halting tracks. He touches two fingers to Dean’s temple, runs his power through Dean’s body, and nudges everything back into place. With the collar on and without Dean’s permission, he has to work slowly.

Shivering, Dean gasps. 

Dean grasps at his arm. 

Curious, Castiel watches him. 

Dean shifts his weight to stand evenly on each leg. He keeps a hold on Castiel’s arm as he takes a step, and he keeps holding even once it’s clear the support is unnecessary. 

  


  


  


Very often, Dean doesn’t go to bed. He drops off in his armchair more nights than he doesn’t, reclined and with a movie still playing. The nights of poor sleep stack upon each other until Dean nods off twenty minutes into each film. 

Castiel finds this unsatisfying. 

He pauses the movie, carries Dean to his bed, returns to the movie, finishes it, and watches the behind the scenes features. During the last of these, Dean bursts back into the room, his hair sticking up on one side, his eyes wild. 

Castiel looks up at him. “I watched it without you,” he says. 

Dean leans against Castiel’s armchair, panting for breath. He sits on the armrest, clutching at his own chest. 

Castiel touches Dean’s chest. Dean’s heart races at an unhealthy speed. 

“My apologies,” Castiel tells him, and Dean makes a noise adjacent to crying. 

  


  


  


The next time Dean falls asleep, Castiel carries him to bed, picks a book up off Dean’s nightstand, and sits at the foot of Dean’s bed, reading. Dean kicks him several times. Castiel finishes the book, but Dean has another. 

Before Castiel can finish the second book, Dean jerks awake again. Dean staggers out of bed, his entire body tilted into the motion, propelled by fear.

Castiel says “Dean” and Dean nearly falls on his face.

Dean slaps on the light. Framed in his open doorway, he turns around to stare at Castiel and the book. 

“What are you doing?” Dean demands. 

Castiel holds up the book. “Reading.”

“It was dark,” Dean says. 

“Not to me.”

Dean stares at him a little longer. He closes his bedroom door and returns to the bed. He sits at the head of the bed, still staring at Castiel. “I can leave the light on. For you to read.”

“I can see in the dark,” Castiel restates. 

“Okay,” Dean says, and leaves the light on. 

  


  


  


The TV room becomes a place of daytime viewing. Come evening, movie night relocates into Dean’s room, a laptop taking its natural place atop Dean’s lap. They watch movies this way now, propped up by pillows at the head of the bed, Dean beneath the sheets, Castiel on top. 

Each night, Dean falls asleep, some nights taking longer than others. When he does, Castiel takes the laptop for himself. He doesn’t like computers, he quickly discovers, but he does like reading, and there is much to read. 

As Castiel reads, Dean often reaches for him. A hand on Castiel’s arm. An arm across Castiel’s lap. Those nights, Dean never jerks awake, though he still kicks. 

  


  


  


One night, Castiel decides to try it. He closes the laptop, puts it aside, and climbs under the sheets. He lies on his back. He lies on his sides. He lies on his front and decides this position was a mistake, his face surrounded by the pillow. 

Lying again on his back, he listens to the calm of the room. When Dean reaches for him, Castiel permits it. Gradually, across the hours of the night, Dean works his way on top of Castiel’s chest, then atop Castiel’s body, a leg thrown over Castiel’s waist. 

One of their points of contact becomes very warm, warmer than the rest. 

Dean nuzzles against the collar. 

Castiel lies on his back, observing it all. 

  


  


  


When Dean wakes, he acts ashamed. 

Uncertain of this response, Castiel watches and listens.

Dean crawls on top of him the following night too. He wakes up partway through the night, however, and climbs off Castiel carefully, rolling over to face the opposite direction. He backs up against Castiel in his sleep anyway, but is still less ashamed in the morning. 

Castiel adjusts accordingly. Holding Dean is interesting. How much is comfort, how much is restraint. Sometimes, his arms around Dean’s chest cause Dean to roll onto his stomach and undulate against the mattress. This is very interesting. 

One night, Dean makes more noises than usual while doing it, and one of these is Castiel’s name. Castiel pays close attention as Dean shudders, goes still, and wakes. 

Dean rolls over, his eyes sightlessly seeking Castiel’s in the dark. 

Castiel says nothing. 

“Gotta go to the bathroom,” Dean mutters, slipping out of bed. He scurries away, and when he comes back, he furtively tosses his underwear into his laundry bin. Whether he remembers that Castiel can see him is unclear. 

  


  


  


Castiel doesn’t know how Dean sleeps when he’s away on hunts. Poorly, is his best guess. Dean always returns exhausted and battered, but he returns with something more this time, something else. 

“You’re still here,” Dean says, advancing on Castiel with wide eyes and a long gait. “You didn’t leave.”

Frowning, Castiel touches the collar at his throat, but Dean barely seems to notice. Dean grasps Castiel by the shoulders, then around the shoulders, hugging him tight, as tightly as Dean himself prefers to be held in his sleep. 

Castiel duly replicates the hold until Dean’s grip fractionally loosens. Dean shifts back scant inches, looks at Castiel from this distance, and presses his mouth hard against Castiel’s. 

Despite the instruction of many movies, Castiel is uncertain how to respond. There is no camera or animation to lend clues, only Dean, Dean’s insistence, and Dean’s insistent mouth. 

Dean ends the kiss to duck his head and press his mouth against the binding collar. “Please don’t leave, Cas,” Dean begs. “Please don’t go, you can’t go, don’t make me be alone again.”

Castiel holds Dean tighter again, and this seems to work, to a point. Dean begins to press harder against him, but only lower. Dean shoves his clothed erection against Castiel’s middle, something he’s done countless times, though never while awake. 

Dean kisses him, and ruts, and ruts while kissing him, while begging him, and when it’s over, neither of them seem to know what to do. Embarrassment and shame visibly rise in Dean, but fear keeps him close. Eventually, Castiel follows him to his bedroom to allow Dean to change clothing. 

Despite low supplies, Dean cooks an especially elaborate dinner that night, all an assortment of things or approximations of things Castiel prefers. Dean insists on Castiel eating despite Castiel knowing no hunger. Dean also insists on not looking at Castiel directly. 

  


  


  


Dean relocates movie night back to the TV room. 

  


  


  


Castiel relocates a sleeping Dean back to the bedroom. 

  


  


  


After a few weeks of dissatisfaction at this routine, Dean brings the laptop and movies back to his bedroom. Instead of sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Castiel, Dean now sits with his arm around Castiel’s shoulders. As the movie plays, Dean’s head tilts. His hair brushes Castiel’s, and then Dean’s head leans against his. 

They make it to the end of the film without Dean falling asleep. A man and a woman kiss by the side of the road while music swells.

The credits play, and Dean doesn’t move away. 

Instead, Dean turns his head. 

Castiel looks back at Dean. 

Dean kisses him. 

As the woman by the side of the road had, Castiel opens his mouth. 

Dean’s tongue enters. It is warm and wet, coated in saliva, DNA, and bacteria. It touches Castiel in places Castiel has not thought of being touched, as touch is an external sensation and the inside of his mouth is internal. 

It is very curious. 

Dean makes the kisses different from each other, although Castiel is not sure how this is accomplished. The kisses are certainly different enough when pressed to places other than Castiel’s mouth, but Dean moves lower too quickly for Castiel to be truly able to compare the points of contact. 

The laptop gets shoved further down the bed, along with the sheets and Castiel’s pants. “I’ll make it good,” Dean says, keeps saying. “I’ll make it so good, Cas, lemme make you feel good.”

Dean puts his mouth on Castiel’s penis. His whole penis at first, but Dean chokes as Castiel lengthens. Dean uses his hands and mouth in conjunction, then, applying wetness and pressure and his own strange form of prayer, meant for Castiel alone. 

Something peculiar happens in Castiel’s lower abdomen. It pulls behind his testicles and pushes at the base of his penis. It pulses in time with Castiel’s heartbeat, a previously unnecessary rhythm in Castiel’s chest. 

Dean swallows and wipes his mouth and swallows before climbing on top of Castiel’s lap with his pants open. Dean kisses Castiel. Dean wraps both of their hands around Dean’s erection, moving Castiel’s hand for him. Dean groans against Castiel’s shoulder. 

Dean collapses. 

Castiel cleans off the mess with an absent thought. He shifts his weight, pulls his pants back up, and pulls the sheets back up. He places the laptop in his own lap and clicks over to the features. Dean grunts out a noise of confusion before propping himself up. 

“You’re...” Dean starts to say. 

“I cleaned myself,” Castiel says, indicating his shirt. 

“Uh,” Dean says. “Yeah. Looks like you did.”

Castiel watches the blooper reel. It can’t be very funny, because Dean doesn’t laugh. 

“Did I hurt you?” Dean asks, sounding strangely afraid. 

Castiel looks down at him. “No.”

Dean doesn’t seem reassured. 

“Even if you bit my penis, it wouldn’t pain me,” Castiel explains. “This form is very durable.”

Dean’s face goes an odd shade of white. He makes a noise. 

“Are you tired?” Castiel asks, checking the time. “We could watch another.”

Dean takes a slow, deep breath. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says. Another breath. “Okay.”

  


  


  


At the end of the second movie, Dean kisses him again. First putting the laptop on his bedside table, Dean climbs on top of Castiel more slowly, without rutting. He pulls Castiel down to lie horizontally with him beneath the sheets, without moving their clothing. When Dean falls asleep, his mouth is still against Castiel’s skin. 

  


  


  


Dean still thrashes in his sleep at times. At others, he calls for Castiel, or for humans Castiel has never met. Dean kicks fairly often, but he also ruts against Castiel more and more, grinding his erection against Castiel with decreasing shame upon awakening. 

Dean starts to touch Castiel at other times of day, outside of the bedroom entirely. He hasn’t gone on a hunt since the last one, the hunt that sent him careening into Castiel upon his return to the bunker, and Castiel never asks for details, certain that Dean will someday open the floodgates of his mouth and again tell Castiel his life story. 

For now, Dean pulls at Castiel with hands and words and mouth. He tells Castiel that he’ll make things good, that he’ll make Castiel feel good, that he’ll make it all worth it. He puts his fingers inside Castiel, and later, he also uses his erection. He urges Castiel to respond however Castiel sees fit.

Mostly, Castiel holds tight.

  


  


  


“Dean, I’d like to ask you something,” Castiel says one slow morning while Dean flips pancakes. 

“Too late to put bananas in them, sorry,” Dean answers. 

“Why an angel?” Castiel asks. “Other beings are immortal besides us.”

Dean’s shoulders tense. His eyes flick down to the collar around Castiel’s throat, as if surprised to see it there after well over a year. Two years, soon. While a short period for Castiel, it should be a significant portion of Dean’s life.

“Because,” Dean says, almost as if he intends to make that his complete answer. It’s only at the table, fork and knife motionless in his hands, that Dean sighs and says, “It’s fucked up, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says reasonably. 

“You guys are the most powerful shit out there, y’know? Beyond restraining you, there’s nothing I can really do to hurt you,” Dean explains. 

“You were afraid of harming me?”

Dean shakes his head with a sad, tiny laugh. “I figured, if I could manage to keep you, I’d keep you for the rest of my life,” Dean says to his pancakes, increasingly soggy as the syrup saturates them. He starts cutting. “And, well. If you broke free, that would be the rest of my life too, huh?”

Eating his own pancakes, Castiel mulls that over. “What is your plan for releasing me upon your death?” he decides to ask. 

After a long pause, Dean says, “If I tell you, you might break out.”

“As long as you have one,” Castiel says. “I was wondering if that was why you’d stopped hunting.”

“No, I just...” Dean sighs. “I got seriously spooked, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Castiel says, and stands up to wash the dishes. 

  


  


  


  


Dean starts hunting again. Castiel makes his way through another shelf in the library, heals multiple wounds for Dean, and continues to fornicate with Dean regularly. Movie nights begin to repeat. Dean buys a new comforter for their bed and asks Castiel’s opinions on color only to discover that their perceptions of light vastly differ. 

  


  


  


  


Three years, five months, and eighteen days after Castiel was summoned into human shape and trapped in a circle of holy fire, all the wards of the bunker simultaneously fail. The lights change color in alarm while a siren blares. 

Dean leaps to his feet, but no farther. 

The siren cuts out. 

A shape flares, one that would blind Dean if Castiel didn’t clap his hand over Dean’s eyes. 

The lights turn back on. 

Castiel lowers his hand. 

Compressed into the form of a human woman, her wings still flickering against the far wall, Anna looks at Castiel with her hands on her hips. “Castiel, you’re needed.”

“Now?” Castiel asks. 

“ _Now_ ,” his captain says, leaving no room for argument. 

Beside Castiel, pale with fear and tall with obstinence, Dean holds his ground against a force he can’t dream of fighting, and yet is willing to. 

“Dean,” Castiel says. 

“No,” Dean answers, eyes trained on Anna. “She can’t take you back.”

“Dean,” Castiel says again, more gently. 

Dean looks at him. 

Castiel pulls in his power. All of it. He compresses it inside his heart the way his body is compressed inside this human skin, and the collar readjusts accordingly, holding against next to nothing. 

Castiel slides his thumb up between the band and his neck. 

He pulls with one sharp _snap_. 

Eyes wide, mouth open, Dean steps back. 

Castiel hands him the broken collar. 

Fingers wrapped around it, Dean falls to his knees.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Castiel says, leaning down to kiss Dean on the top of his head. “It’s okay.

“I’ll be right back.”

**Author's Note:**

> ngl, I was really looking forward to posting this one.
> 
> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


End file.
